


Curveball

by experimentorium



Series: pearlina week 2k20! [5]
Category: Splatoon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, le baseball au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24912607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experimentorium/pseuds/experimentorium
Summary: Marina's the star pitcher on the baseball team. Pearl admires from afar.(for prompt 5: summertime skies)
Relationships: Marina/Pearl (Splatoon)
Series: pearlina week 2k20! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791904
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Curveball

**Author's Note:**

> all I know about baseball is the sparse knowledge i've collected from a childhood of going to games with my family and watching daily mlb games, but you didn't come here to read about baseball, lol
> 
> ... im no athlete, but somehow writing sports is always so much more fun than watching/playing them...

There’s something different about the sky in the summertime. In November it’s a five o’clock sunset over a haze of gray; sunny December days are thin and cold despite the blinding sunlight. During those springtime in-betweens the clouds start to get fluffier and the blue of the sky softens, thawing off from the frozen, saturated winters. Sunsets in July are always the best, eating ice cream from flimsy paper cups in front of the corner store, sticky and sweaty from spending the whole day on the field complex. Soft pulls of cotton cumulus clouds illuminate pink over the pastel sky. 

Summer, for Marina, means no school; means she can spend all day chasing the heat around the red-dirt diamond of the baseball field, soaking her shirt in ice water to stay cool until the water evaporates and she goes to the hose on the side of the maintenance shed to soak it again. She lets the water drip steadily over her head, cool water curling around her face and dripping from the tip of her nose; she shivers when she stands and a single drop slides down her spine. The chill is invigorating, empowering, and she heads back out renewed. 

Summertime weeks mean days that bleed into each other, no Monday or Thursday or Saturday, every day is sun and heat and baseball practice with her best friends until dinnertime.

Marina grew up learning to pitch on these fields; her uncle was the one who taught her, flipping his cap backwards on his head when he crouched low to fix toddler-Marina’s form, tipping it off to women in sundresses who strolled by with their friends. She had never been a great hitter; she could always pull a bludgeon or two nowadays to scare the other team’s fielders, but Lenn grew to be the real slugger in the family. She spit like one, too. Marina’s always been the natural-born pitcher; the intimacy with the catcher in that moment when lightning crackles in the stillness, batter standing solid between them at home plate, choking their bat and waiting for her to rear back and let the ball fly. She loves the strategy, applying the various types of pitches she can throw as weaponry set to attack each batter’s weakness; the job isn’t simply a physical one. Marina’s proud of her work, how far she’s come since her days underhanding; her team respects her dedication and are just as proud of their star pitcher with the killer curving fastball that’s supposedly the stuff of nightmares. 

So, what Marina can’t quite seem to understand is why _she_ had been the one unanimously chosen as the cannon fodder trusted to retrieve their last ball from where it had crashed into the big, looming house on the edge of the field complex, the one that belonged to the rich family that owned the land. Of course, Nessa was the one who’d hit the incriminating ball, what with the rockets she sends out on the rare occasion she steps out of the catcher’s gear, but she eyes the perfectly manicured hedge fence with nerves apparent. 

It’s no fluke that the wealthy house sits right on the edge of the complex; the family who lives in it owns the land and are the ones to thank for its public status. They all know the stories about the big, strict man of the house who wouldn’t think nicely of dirty old lost baseballs ruining his freshly mown lawn. So far, the only option they’re able to come up with is to send someone to go get it, which ends up unanimously being Marina. 

“You’re more diplomatic’n me…” Nessa had pleaded.

“Yeah! Those patricians’ll just see a stupid meathead jock who broke their fancy window,” Lenn seconded, ignoring Nessa’s pointed glare, “But if you go up, and, and do the sweet baby face thing you’re so good at, they might be more understanding...throw in a few good vocab words too, couldn’t hurt.” 

And so, with promise of big favors owed to her, Marina set off on the walk of shame, across fields with no shade, letting the sun beat down on her back and grumbling as the house grew intimidatingly closer.

She’s not quite sure how to go about sneaking onto a rich person’s property to search for a single, ratty baseball that isn’t even the best they’ve got. Over the shrubbery, Marina can see the window the baseball in question broke through, a clear circular hole with webbing estuaries of cracks spreading outwards through the glass. It doesn’t seem as if anyone’s outside, and there’s no immediately audible complaining from within the broken window’s room, so she assumes with bitter optimism that no one’s yet noticed it. She steps carefully through the wrought-iron gate, over an immaculate, unstained bluestone pathway along the side of the house. 

On her tiptoes, Marina tries to peer inside the house, but the blooming bushes hugging up against the house’s brick exterior prevent her from getting a good view. She starts back for the gate, preparing herself for when she’s going to have to greet whoever answers the front door. She will plead guilty, offer to do chores, she’ll—

“You drop this?” The voice is lazy and light, and comes from the house. Marina stops dead. She turns slowly, hand already resting upon the open gate.

It’s a girl, with a shock of pale hair dolled up in perfect, fat ringlet curls. She’s lifted the broken window and leans on the sill, holding in the palm of her hand the baseball that had made its untimely journey into foreign land. Her lip quirks into a smirk, and all Marina can think to ponder is how much this girl’s complexion mirrors that of the bursting white peonies baring their velvety layered petals just beneath her outstretched arm. 

“So?” The girl presses, and this seems to snap Marina out of it.

“I, yeah, I’m,” Marina swallows. “That’s mine, I’m really sorry—I can find somebody to fix your window, I swear we didn’t mean any harm to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the girl waves her hand. “I can just tell my dad _I_ broke it instead, how ‘bout that? I’m a boisterous kid, after all.” Her expression grows sly.

“Don’t tease me,” Marina’s brow knits. This girl’s tone grates on Marina’s nerves, she can’t quite place if she’s baiting her or attempting (poorly) to flirt. 

“No joke! I’m serious,” the girl’s eyebrows lift. “I’d never tease you.” 

Marina steps away from the gate, keeping her eyes trained on the girl.

“Come on, my arm’s getting tired,” she presses. She seems unfazed by Marina’s suspicion. “You want it back, or no?”

Marina goes to the window, takes the baseball from her hand. The weight of it is familiar on her palm, ridges and scuffs just where they’ve always been. 

“Thank you,” Marina sighs. “And, you’re sure this is okay—” 

“Of course,” the girl slides back into the house. “And don’t mention it.”

Marina starts towards the gate again, slowly tearing her gaze from the girl in the window. Just before she’s too far from the property, the girl calls out again. 

“A-and, I, I mean—”

Marina pauses, expecting to have a favor asked of her.

“I been, y’know, I’ve seen you pitch before, I watch—I mean, I can see the games goin’ on from my room. You pitch, good. You’re, you got a good arm, I mean…” the girl’s head lolls, she scratches the back of her neck. “It’s not creepy, I swear. I’m not allowed out, so things get boring quick. I listen to the major league games over the radio, but I like watchin’ you play better.”

Marina blinks. “Thank you,” she says, and hopes mildly that it sounds earnest. One of Nessa’s strongest pieces of advice to her (from experience, of course), was that rich girls are _liars_ . She couldn’t think of any reason _not_ to believe this girl; Marina doesn’t like to believe gossip, but still, she’s wary. Setting her sights back on the field with an odd sense of relief, she tosses the ball into the air and catches it again. Lenn and Nessa seem to have already set up her headstone in the dugout, with Nessa’s beaten-up old catcher’s gear and helmet. 

  
  


Marina is well-known in the neighborhood. She babysits around her block for extra cash, she helps coach younger kids on the fields during the school year. Her uncle owns the body shop in town; the best mechanic in the state, neighbors boast. She can play piano, but most people know her for her throwing arm.

She takes extracurriculars, she studies hard in school, she’s seen her fair share of boys stumbling over their own feet to ask her to lunch. She’s never really been interested in dating, she spends most of her time ticking down the days until summer tournaments start, mind procuring endless numbers of strategies to scribble down and present during full-team practice sessions. Sometimes she humors the occasional boy for lunch, or to meet to see a game on campus after school. They usually try to impress her, and it’s sweet, but she almost feels like she’s teasing them, like it’s another babysitting job. 

Right now, Marina can’t sleep. It’s too hot, and she can’t get comfortable. Who knows why the first place her mind decides to go instead of sleep is Pearl’s backyard. 

She learned Pearl’s name when the maid called it out, after the second time a rogue ball made its untimely journey to her house. Thankfully, it didn’t seem as if anything had broken this time, but even so, Marina couldn’t quite muster the same dread at inevitably being nominated to go retrieve it as she had been able to only a few days before. She had made it to the yard as Pearl was inspecting the sizable hole in her sunny-pink parasol. When she met Marina’s gaze through the splintered wood and ripped paper, her grin was infectiously mirthful. 

“Now you’re just doin’ it on purpose,” she chuckled before the maid stormed out, doing a once-over of her physical state before her eyes landed on Marina, in her hand-me-down jersey and threadbare cap. Pearl sensed the trouble and jumped in without hesitation. 

“I made her do it,” she promised. “I saw her walking by with her bat’n ball and I told’er if she could hit it to the yard from there,” she had gestured to the fields. “I’d give her ten bucks.”

The maid could most certainly not have believed her record-time excuse. She had looked between Marina’s mildly guilty expression and Pearl’s pleading gaze. “Don’t waste your money, Pearl,” was all she said before turning and going off into the house again. 

“Pearl?” Marina had allowed herself to snort, guilt easing away. Not quite the name she’d expected, but it fit her well.

“Yeah,” Pearl had offered her a look that said, _and I suppose you could do better_? Like it was a contest.

“I’m Marina,” Marina leaned over the gate. “Can I have my ten dollars now?”

Pearl threw the baseball at her instead. If Marina’s reaction time wasn’t so honed, her nose would’ve bled. Pearl lifted her holey parasol so it hid her face, spinning it over her shoulder as Marina had started backwards towards the field. 

She’s not quite sure why she hasn’t told Nessa yet. She’s told Nessa about people who’ve flirted with her before, but this— _Pearl_ —seems a bit more special, like it should be kept secret. It feels nicer as a secret, a unique little thought that only lives in Marina’s headspace. Marina listens to Nessa snore in her bed across the room, blinking wide-awake into the dark.

Was Pearl sleeping, now? It seems so dull, not being allowed outside your own house. 

After long enough, Marina starts learning to hit the ball into the house’s yard herself—at least, whenever she sees the punctured pink parasol poking above the hydrangeas during midafternoon scrimmages. Once, while retrieving the ball, Pearl lets it drop with a gasp. Marina thinks she’s had a heart attack until she notices the fat, dark cicada who’s made the baseball its new sitting place. Marina coaxes it onto her finger and laughs at Pearl’s twisted expression, lifting the ball from the mown grass and returning to her team a celebrated hero, with a new companion in tow. The cicada sits on the bill of her cap until the game is over. The next morning, she finds its molted shell stuck to her cap. It becomes known as the good-luck molt, and every time Marina wears that particular had to a game, they win with flying colors.

Sometimes Marina even sees Pearl catch the ball before it can break any more of her family’s property. She forgets her parasol and lunges forward and Marina can see the weight of impact as the ball lands between her fingers. As she tosses it back to the closest fielder, Marina notices the toss isn’t any old sissy-throw. Pearl’s arm is sure in the direction it travels, and she shoots Marina a goofy look before reaching for her parasol and disappearing into the gardens behind the house. She’s like some sort of elusive species, Marina ponders at the mound, in those sparse moments between batters during the fifth inning. Nobody’s on base, and the other team is on their second out. Next on the roster is a mouse of a girl, and she strikes out swinging. _Disappearing like some storybook character_ ; Marina shakes her head as they head back to the dugout for the second half. 

Nessa notices something is up. She must have known before, but she only speaks up after the third week of no Pearl, when Marina’s performance starts to suffer, and she catches her looking over her shoulder all too often. Marina’s not even sure which hat she grabbed when they left the house that morning. 

“Hey, Marina,” Nessa rarely uses actual names (she favors nicknames, generally of the ridiculous sort). “I don’t think that weird kid’s gonna show up anytime soon… rich folk, they drift, y’know? They prolly have houses in Europe or Canada where it’s not so damn hot all the time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s the seventh inning stretch, and Marina’s performance hasn’t quite been up to her usual snuff. She’s disappointed with herself for not doing better, and equally irked by Nessa’s thinly veiled attempt at prying.

“Well, I,” Nessa laughs, then sobers. “I don’t want you to lose track of what’s ahead’a you. S’all. Loosen up! We’re thinkin’a switching you out next half, and eighth. Take a break… but ninth’s fair game, girl.”

Marina sits on the bench all eighth inning, under the shade of the cinder block and plywood dugout, feeling sour. Nessa’s right. She can’t let herself be distracted by a single person she’s only known for a few weeks. Nessa is her sister, and baseball is her game. She comes back onto the field and finds she can breathe a little easier. She only looks over her shoulder when they tie the game and pull into the tenth. 

  
  


The summer tournaments always take place in the heavy heat of mid-July. During those games in the thick evening swelter, all Marina knows is the sweat of her hand in the mitt of her glove, the sweat rolling down her back between her shoulder blades and making the thin fabric of her jersey stick to her skin. She sniffs once, eyes trained on home plate; she nods to Nessa where she’s crouched just behind the other team’s batter. 

Marina’s fastball is a specialty, a killer that whips right when you think it’ll keep on its course. She’d taken years to perfect it to what it is, and every batter who put on their brave face at that plate, at the mercy of Marina’s throwing arm, knew it through and through. It’s a sleeping giant, that particular pitch. The batters all think they’ve seen what she can do; but she saves it, saves the killer for those last moments of hope, when the other team thinks they've seen it all, when they think she’s tired enough to let them off easy.

 _Inhale, exhale_. She inhales and pops like a spring, coils up and snaps the ball forward with a flourish, it whips through the air and smacks clean into the catcher’s mitt, the batter stuck halfway swinging at the elusive missile that slipped by without so much as a skimming touch. 

“ _Stee-rike three_ !” The ump yells, and the girl throws down her bat in anger. “ _Game_!”

Marina can finally relax now, tension giving way to a smile high on the victory adrenalin rush. Nessa throws her mitt down so it kicks up red dirt, and whoops loudly. They’re in the winner’s bracket, and their next slot is in the quarter finals. With teammates cheering and slapping her on the back, she turns to face the crowd. It’s no major-league pull, these tournaments, but there’s always food, and surrounding neighborhoods always provide ample support for their mismatched, motley crew of a team. People are standing and clapping, parents shouting the names of their kids on the field, filtering out of the stands and gathering in groups to catch up with one another. 

Up in the shade of the highest bleachers, Marina just barely catches someone waving in her direction. She only realizes that someone is Pearl once she stands up on the bench and waves both arms ridiculously. Marina’s laugh is almost too giddy, it catches in her throat and hitches, and she brings her hand to her mouth to cover it while she waves to Pearl with her other hand. Pearl beckons to her, an enthusiastic _come_ _here_ , and Marina jogs over without thinking.

“That was the rudest goddamn pitch I ever saw, Marina!” Pearl’s grin is huge, she looks as breathless and excited as Marina feels.

“What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in weeks!” Marina climbs the bleachers like stairs, stopping just at the edge of the hooded shade in the higher seats. Pearl hops down to the level above her, near eye level. 

“Yeah, sorry about that… I made ma take me home soon as possible so I wouldn’t miss the whole tournament like I did last year…” Pearl waves her hand. She doesn’t look so done up today, hair hanging straight and frizzy in the humidity, a sheen over her face from the late-afternoon heat. 

“I thought you weren’t allowed out?” Marina catches her breath. 

Pearl smiles, raising her eyebrows. “Never said I didn’t sneak around, every so often… ‘sides, not like I _told_ her I was gonna be running around once we got back.” 

“You criminal,” Marina shakes her head. She can’t stop smiling. 

“Well, only reason I’m not allowed’s my health. I burn easily, gotta stay out of the sun,” she gestures to the hood over the place she sat. “I hate being inside all day, but that’s the kinda mistake you only make once.” 

“Sounds fun,” Marina offers her an apologetic look.

“Hey, I work with what I got,” Pearl shrugs. She looks unruffled. Marina has no idea what she’d do if she couldn’t go outside without risking her health. 

Pearl taps her foot on the bench, digging her hands deep into her shorts’ pockets. She inhales to start talking the same time Marina does, and they chuckle.

“You first,” Marina feels her cheeks color, and it’s not because of the heat.

“Ah,” Pearl smiles down at her feet. “I’ve got some time before my folks start lookin’ for me… do you? Wanna… grab some, hot dogs or something? I mean, I didn’t see all the food they got down there, but I saw a hot dog cart that said ‘world’s best,’ which you always gotta take with a grain of salt, but I, y’know, it’s something—”

“Well, I have to get packed up,” Marina doesn’t think her heart has ever beat this loud before. Pearl’s face falls for a second, before Marina continues. “But… once I have all my stuff away we could see if they’re still around?”

“Oh, yeah! I can shade-hop until the sun goes down, I’ll meet you over there,” Pearl smiles and it holds no resemblance to that teasing smirk she had given Marina through the broken window. _It’s_ _cute_ , Marina thinks, slowly retracing her steps backwards down the bleachers.

“Alright, then,” Marina nods. “Oh, and those hot dogs are only kind of good. I’ve had them before.”

“Best in the state?” Pearl offers.

“More like best in the county,” Marina wrinkles her nose, turning to take the actual stairs back down to the field. Returning to the dugout, Marina has a skip in her step, and Nessa gives her a look. 

“Good game, eh, jumping bean?” She nods back to the bleachers, where Pearl is maneuvering around the shady spots.

Marina swats at Nessa’s shoulder. “It _was_.” 

The hot dogs, Pearl and Marina decide together, are mediocre at best. Pearl watches in mild distaste as Marina puts both ketchup and relish on hers, and distaste turns to awe as she watches her eat it without making any messes over herself, or the table they’ve chosen to sit at. Once the sun hangs low enough not to intrude, they hang around the empty field. 

“Have you played before?” Marina asks. She’s laying in the outfield and Pearl is sitting next to her, dragging her hands through the grass. 

“Hm?” she turns her head. She used to think butterflies in one’s stomach was a silly way to describe attraction to another person. After all, she had never felt it before. Now, she realizes, it’s more like a faint buzzing across her skin, a blooming sensation in her stomach, when Pearl looks at her and smiles just there. 

“I mean, baseball, I know you listen to games, but have you played any?” 

“Yeah, a little…” Pearl turns back to the grass. “I’m not very strong, can’t hit that well, can’t pitch,” she gives Marina a pointed little look, eyebrows raised. “Maybe I could field, but I… I dunno.” 

“How’d you come to like it, then, if you haven’t played much?” Marina rolls onto her side. The grass is cool and dewy against her bare arms and legs. 

“Oh, y’know… my dad’s a fan, but I… I never really _got_ it, right? He dedicated these fields to the town, but we’ve never really spent time together, I didn’t get the buzz. I watched games from my window since I could stand. It seemed nice to have a team, buncha’ people who you can rely on…” her gaze drifts to the side, smile flickering over her lips. She lowers to the grass. Marina can see the curve of her nose, her lips. The way her chest lifts when she breathes. 

“And?” Marina smiles, pressing. 

“And, I saw you,” her voice is quieter, like she doesn’t want Marina to hear.

“Mmwhat?” Marina laughs.

“I saw you pitching, I saw you and your team. You always play in the field right outside my bedroom window, which is the one you broke two months ago… you made it seem like, _agh_ , I dunno,” she pinches the bridge of her nose. “It means so much to you, I could always tell that. So I started listening to games on the radio. I don’t wanna say I got _hooked_ , but… “ she chuckles, “I wanted to, connect with you, some way…” 

Marina doesn’t think she can hear anymore. 

“You…” Marina murmurs, and Pearl props herself up, abruptly. Surprised, Marina lifts her head too, leaning on her elbows. 

“Marina,” she starts. She looks very serious, and it makes Marina smile, eyes squeezing shut. “I—don’t _laugh_ at me.”

“I’m not laughing, I’m not…” Marina covers her smile, chin dipping. A moment, and she lifts her head again. Pearl is looking at her, with some sort of indescribable expression. She has freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and nose. 

“Marina,” she repeats.

“You liked me that much?” Marina asks, voice quiet. Pearl takes a breath and doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. 

“I,” she’s close enough to touch; she reaches out, her fingers brush Marina’s cheek, and Marina leans into it.

“Pearl,” she murmurs, her heart beats low. “I—” 

And Pearl kisses her. Their lips only brush first, the lightest feather-touch, but in a moment Marina takes Pearl’s hand and lets her eyes flutter shut as Pearl leans into her, presses closer and kisses her deep. Every place where they are touching sings in delight, the skin of Pearl’s hand is soft where she cups Marina’s cheek and her lips are sweet from the orange soda she drank before, and Marina wants to forget everything she’s ever known, to give her entire self to this single moment. 

They part, and Pearl hovers over her, catching her breath. 

Marina laughs, head tilting back in the grass. She takes Pearl’s hand from her face, splays their hands so they lie flat against one another. Pearl’s fingers are small, Marina’s longer ones can bend slightly over her fingertips. She slips her fingers into the gaps between Pearl’s; when she looks back at her, Pearl is gazing back and forth, between their hands and Marina’s face. 

“You taste like relish,” Pearl nods, and Marina starts laughing again. She doesn’t let go of Pearl’s hand. 

“You know how the sky looks different in summertime?” Marina asks Pearl later. They’re still laying in the grass, the fluorescents are off and the field is nearly dark as the sun finally disappears. 

“Mm?” Pearl murmurs sleepily against her shoulder. 

“I’m not sure how to put it, it’s like… the sky gets softer in summer. The blue is softer, the clouds _look_ softer…” Marina leaves her words hanging between them. Pearl’s eyes flutter open, and she looks up with Marina, into the atmosphere. 

“I don’t really look at the sky… I’ve usually got someone else on my mind,” Marina feels her smile, and reaches over to pinch her cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> also I often forget to mention, but in most human aus i write pearl usually has some form of albinism, which is generally described as a lack of melanin pigmentation throughout the body as a result of genetic mutation. from my base research and general assumption, it makes the person more susceptible to severe sunburn (and eventually skin cancer) and it can even affect vision and depth perception... just some tidbits
> 
> thanks for reading! i love reading all the comments you guys leave :D  
> (i also didn't have as much time to edit this one, apologies for any mistakes!)


End file.
